Scrutiny
by UnlessIt'sEvil
Summary: "Your moles don't make you look stupid," Lydia says in a way that feels like she's reprimanding him. "No, they do, they really, really do. So I'm making 'm disappear. Poof!" He wiggles his fingers in some sort of demented version of jazz hands. "Vanish." "That's dumb, you're dumb," she says. / / sterek, pre-slash, set in season 2


_I had a plot bunny, so I wrote this instead of my philosophy essay, which was due last week anyway. I am a horrible person._

_This takes place somewhere around the end of season two, I guess. Isaac and Erica are there, and they're sorta civil, and Boyd and Jackson don't really appear though they're somewhere, and I'm exploring my love for the Stydia brotp because I think it should be a thing._

_Also, this is pre-slash, because I for the life of me cannot write kissing scenes. I've never kissed anyone, so how the fuck to describe kissing is beyond my knowledge, I'm afraid._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Stiles isn't the most observant of people. He gets distracted easily, and more often than not he has a hard time seeing something clearly through the haze of thoughts that surround everything else. Especially when he's having a conversation with someone—mostly Scott or his dad, because they're his only friends, which, sad—he's thinking about all the things he needs to say before the conversation ends, or he's honing in on a specific word used by the person in question and forgets to listen to all the others.

Which is why it almost comes as a surprise when one day he notices how people barely look him in the eyes when talking to him. The first time he sees it, he's talking to his Human Geography teacher, and the middle-aged woman's stare is somewhere left of his nose. He instinctively scrubs at his cheek, as if wiping away a piece of dirt, and it's like his teacher is pulled from a daze, her eyes are finally on his. All the while she's still talking about the assignment he came to her for. And it doesn't take long for her gaze to leave his and fall low on his throat, and what's the deal with that?

When he sits down next to Scott at their usual lunch table, he's in the process of regaling his discovery to his best friend, only to realize Scott is doing the exact same thing. Scott's eyes flit from something on Stiles' cheek to his chin to the collar of his shirt and at a certain point even to his forearm, where Stiles has rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt. Stiles doesn't get the chance to ask him, because Erica and Isaac arrive and—rudely—demand all of Scott's attention. Stiles merely huffs, and tries to figure out what's going on.

Erica and Isaac—they're the exact same, he discovers ten minutes later. When he makes his sarcastic quip amidst the story he was only half listening to, their eyes are most certainly not on his. They're on random spots on his person, and he fights the urge to throw his hands up in frustration and growl like he's not the only human in their ragtag team of supernatural crime fighters.

* * *

The first thing he does when he gets home from school is dump his bag on his desk and stand in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of his closet door. He examines his eyes, to see why nobody wants to look at them. He can't find anything in the plain brown that would be off-putting enough to warrant avoidance. He then inspects his face, his neck, his arms. He sees pale skin, hairy arms, moles, kind of floppy ears—wait a second. The moles are in the exact spots he caught people looking. People are looking at his moles?

He squints. Yeah, okay, he can see how they can be distracting factors when dealing with him. They are as loud as his personality, really. As loud and as out of place. They make his body look like a patchwork of skin, countless little imperfections that steal the attention off of any feature of his that otherwise might be pleasing to the eye. He's never liked them, but he hadn't realized how much of a problem they really posed until now. Now, it's like they're even more noticeable than before. They're a glaring issue, and he turns away from the mirror as his mind starts racing. How to fix this, he wonders.

The thought comes to him before he can filter it out, and then it's too big for him to ignore. _Makeup._ It works well enough for girls—which, yeah, if he's going through with this, he's going to stop that thought right there—and it's the only thing he can think of. He's not quite ready to consider getting laser removal—he's heard about people having their moles surgically removed for health and for vanity—or anything that drastic. Not only is he uncomfortable with the thought of changing something about himself that has always been such a, for the lack of a better word, _identifying_ characteristic of his, he also doesn't want to do something so permanent before he has really fully thought it through. So makeup it is. He'll try it out, and if he doesn't like it, he'll just have to deal with this part of him, or start seriously considering the removal thing.

Before he's even fully aware of it, he's made his way into the empty bedroom in their house, which is only empty in the sense that nobody's using it. In reality, it's jam-packed with boxes and knickknacks of all sizes. It's all his mother's old stuff, and he ignores the surge of emotion upon stepping into the room, going straight to where he knows her old toiletries are left. He finds her makeup bag quickly enough, and rummages through the foreign tubes and bottles and packets. He sneezes twice at the dust that blooms up at his motions, and finally finds a small bottle with a flesh-colored substance inside. When he leaves the room, he closes the door gently. He then goes into the bathroom and struggles with getting the dubiously jelly-ish content out of the expensive looking bottle, and when he finally manages, he strategically dabs it on his moles like he's seen Lydia doing countless times with her own makeup. He makes a face at his reflection. His face is now covered in patches of _orange_, bigger than the moles themselves. He eyes the make up left on his fingers and decides that it's just not really his color. His mother was always more tanned than him, he now recalls, and he smacks his palm into his forehead, accidentally smearing the makeup left on his fingers into his hair. He sighs, decides he needed to take a shower anyway, and starts planning another way to go at fixing this.

* * *

Which is how Stiles finds himself in the overly bright, obnoxiously perfume-scented department store in the Beacon Hills mall the next day after school. He got out of playing video games with Scott by saying Harris had given Stiles an extra assignment for not participating enough in class, which resulted in a horrified Scott squeaking "But I participate even less than you!" and running off to avoid the Chemistry teacher that had just rounded the corner.

Stiles walks through the aisles, looking at all the different types of skin products—foundation, tinted moisturizer, concealer, bb-cream, mineral powder, skin cream, bronzer, face primer—and just feeling generally overwhelmed. He imagines for about five full seconds what it would have been like if he had been born a girl, and shudders violently. He just gained a whole new level of respect for women, and that was just about the makeup. He'd seen the bra department when Erica dragged him to the mall last time (why she did that, he doesn't know, because it's not like she wants to be friends with him or anything) and thanks whatever deity responsible for his XY chromosomes.

"Stiles?"

He freezes on the spot, and a distant, hysterical part of him thinks that if he stays motionless, the person to whom the voice belongs won't notice him.

"Stiles, what are you doing here?"

He turns around slowly, an embarrassingly big smile stretching his cheeks unnaturally as he greets the person with overdramatic enthusiasm.

"Lydia! Light of my life, star of my dreams, cloud in my personal heaven, what are you doing here?"

She doesn't seem even slightly fazed by his weirder-than-usual oddness, and merely raises a single, perfectly plucked strawberry blond eyebrow at him. "That's what I just asked you," is her only response.

Stiles flails a bit, earning him an angry glare from the lady he almost smacks in the face. "I, uh, I was just, um, I." He sighs. "I'm looking for some makeup to cover up my moles." As soon as he gets over trying to avoid admitting it, it's surprisingly easy to just come out and say it.

Lydia's other eyebrow joins its sister. "What?"

He shrugs. "I noticed that people keep looking at them, and get distracted. So I figured, better kill two birds with one stone and get rid of both that thing and how they makes me look stupid."

"They don't make you look stupid," Lydia says in a way that feels like she's reprimanding him.

"No, they do, they really, really do. So I'm making 'm disappear. Poof!" He wiggles his fingers in some sort of demented version of jazz hands. "Vanish."

"That's dumb, you're dumb," she says.

"Wow, Lyds, you really know how to make a guy feel special." He's feeling defensive, and sarcasm is his only defense. Hence: sarcasm.

She rolls her eyes. "Do you even know where to look? Which product to use?"

He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Um."

Lydia sighs like whatever she's about to say is his fault. "Fine, I'll help you. God knows you need it." She makes it sound like a hardship, but he can see the glint in her eyes that means she's planning something. That mischievousness of hers, it's part of what made his dumb crush stick for so long, long enough for him to fall into the teenage equivalent of love.

* * *

"You don't have to be so aggressive about it."

"Hush!"

"But—OW! Nail!"

"Which is why you need to shut up and hold _still,_ for God's sake, Stiles."

"Since when have I _ever_ been able to sit still? Seriously, since when?"

"Since now, otherwise I might accidentally draw blood with these long, sharp nails of mine. And we don't want that, now do we?"

He eyes her warily. "You know, you're really scary sometimes, Lydia."

"Oh please, you love me."

"Yeah." He grins, and he gets a slap on the cheek in return.

"I said don't move!" Lydia snaps, and for all her five-foot-three adorableness, she really is frightening. Seriously, she could make a good competition for Derek, and that guy has broody and threatening down to an art form.

It's right after their impromptu shopping spree, which included Lydia buying out half the store after they found him the right tint of makeup, and Lydia decided to come by Stiles' house teach him how to apply the stuff. Her excuse was that he would probably end up covering his entire face in it and make himself look like the trigger-happy mannequins from Doctor Who, and he didn't get the time to flail over the fact that _Lydia Martin watched Doctor Who_ because she made him pay for her dress in return for the favor she was doing him.

When Lydia is done covering up the moles on his face, throat, and arms, she takes a step back to look over her work before she lets him take a look of his own. She doesn't say anything for a while, merely frowning at him. She shifts on her feet, looking uncomfortable, and Stiles doesn't think he's ever seen her look so uneasy before.

"I don't even recognize you," she finally says, and the frown hasn't left her face yet. Stiles doesn't consider the consequences of turning towards the mirror before her say-so, and he can't help but gape at the sight he's met with.

He looks different. Really different. He's not entirely sure whether it's a good or bad thing, if he's being honest. Just… different. His face seems more defined, somehow. He's not entirely sure how to describe it, even to himself. He can't say he doesn't like it, really, because he kind of likes the lack of odd spots all over his face and body.

"Well, my work here is done! I have an essay to write, so you go decide whether you want to do this or not. And remember—don't rub it, don't make a mountain out of it, just dab small amounts of it until it blends in with the rest of your face, m'kay?"

"Aye, aye, Sir!" He sloppily salutes her.

"That's Ma'm for you, sergeant," she says with a grin before pecking him on a now mole-less cheek and strutting out of his bedroom. Her kiss fills him with warmth, but not the way it would have a few months ago. He's over his feelings for Lydia, just when they're starting to spend more time together, and perhaps that's for the best. She's a great friend, which, yeah, he thinks he now has a friend other than Scott or his dad.

Life is good.

* * *

He takes it back. Life is not good, because life is filled with creepy werewolves, who creepily sneak into his bedroom window, which he doesn't notice until they're suddenly standing _right next to him, Jesus fucking Christ!_

"Holy fu—" He jumps up out of his chair and flails so violently, Derek has to duck so that Stiles' makeup-covered forearm doesn't collide with Derek's perfectly chiseled jaw. "Doors! I have doors! There are doors in this house, which open, which you can use!"

Derek just glares at him. It's nothing unusual. What is unusual, however, is the way his nose scrunches up, and his eyes are for some inexplicable reason looking Stiles up and down, which makes the younger boy feel really naked and really inappropriately hot and bothered.

"What's that smell, and—what's wrong with your face?"

"_Your _face is wrong," is Stiles' lame comeback. "And I don't know what that smell is. You're the one with the super smeller werewolf nose. Didn't you just teach your pack about scenting last week? If you can't even pick out scents yourself, you are one lousy teacher, dude."

Derek just growls. Again, this is some seriously bad timing for a boner. "Your face looks weird. I don't like it."

Stiles tries not to feel too hurt by that. "Wow, tell us how you really feel, Derek."

"That's not," Derek's eyebrows further even more, and Stiles feels like there should be applause, because that is a seriously impressive achievement, "that's not what I meant. I just mean it doesn't look like it normally does. It's unsettling."

"Yeah? Well, _your_ face is unsettling." Stiles really needs some better comeback material, because this is just pathetic.

Derek rolls his eyes, which then land on something on Stiles' desk. When Stiles turns to look, his heart drops into his stomach, because _shit_, he left the makeup out on his desk for everyone to see. Everyone being the frowny Alpha werewolf standing in front of him.

"Ha, that's, uh," he desperately scrambles for words, "that's Lydia's." Not entirely a lie, since she did pick it out for him. "She came by here after I ran into her at the mall, and, yeah. So that's hers."

Derek has grabbed ahold the makeup by the time Stiles is done rambling, and opens it, only to _sniff_ it, which, what? Then, his face is suddenly very close to Stiles' face, and Stiles' pulse is going into overdrive and holy shit is Derek scenting him now? Is that a thing? Derek? Scenting him? And he can feel a huff of air on his face and then suddenly Derek's gone, and his eyes are wider than usual, with a different brand of angry written on his face.

"What, what are you, what—"

Derek cuts him off. "Why are you wearing make up?

"Um." To lie, or not to lie? Where is Shakespeare to answer Stiles' questions when he needs it? "I lost a bet?"

"You're lying." Crap, stupid werewolf lie detector skills. Stiles scowls.

"Fine, I'm wearing it to cover up my moles, okay? People keep looking at them, and they're hideous, so I decided, let's try makeup!"

"What." That is some inaccurate verbal punctuation, but Stiles decides to not risk his life and keep his lips sealed on the matter.

"I'm wearing makeup to hide my moles," he repeats slowly, as if talking to a five year old. Derek doesn't look like he appreciates the effort.

Suddenly, Derek's hand is on Stiles' face, and oh, Little Stiles is most certainly perking up at that. Derek's thumb rubs the skin close to the corner of Stiles' mouth, and said mouth just kind of pops open and stays like that. When Derek feels he's sufficiently molested that part of Stiles' skin, his entire hand cradles Stiles' jaw and his thumb is rubbing a spot next to Stiles' nose. Then another part of his cheek, and his jaw, and next to his ear, under his ear, his other cheek, and at this point Stiles has stopped trying to breathe altogether. When Derek's hand finally leaves Stiles' face, he's ready to gulp in air like it's going out of style, but then Derek takes the hand with which he'd cradled Stiles' face and _licks his finger_ and _swipes it over the skin right above Stiles' shirt line_, and Stiles thinks he might just pass out.

Derek doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and like hell is Stiles going to be the one to break the loaded silence. Something about Derek's face catches his attention, though. It's… open, almost. Or at least, as open as Derek will ever allow his face to be. He doesn't look his usual moody self, or even fearful, like Stiles will never admit to having caught sight of that night in the pool. He just looks sort of calm. Calmer than usual, at the very least. And Stiles can't help but like it. He wants Derek to look like this more often, like there isn't quite so much weight on his shoulders.

Finally, Derek speaks, and it's nothing Stiles expects. "Don't cover up your moles."

Stiles needs to clear his throat before he can speak louder than a croak. His voice still breaks, though, when he says, "Why not?"

There's another thick silence, and there is something significant about it.

"You're not you without them," is Derek's eventual answer, and again, it's not what Stiles expects.

"What if I don't want to be me?" Stiles bites his lower lip, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. Derek's head tilts to the right ever so slightly, and Stiles is reminded of a puppy. He clamps down on the hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest.

"Then you should reconsider," Derek says, and barely three seconds have passed before he's back out the window, and Stiles is alone with his thoughts once more.

He takes a deep breath in, out, in, and out again. Then he turns around and looks in the mirror, and he realized Derek wiped the makeup off his moles.

Well, he most certainly missed _something_ when it comes to Derek Hale. And he finds himself caring a lot less about something as petty as whether people stare at his moles a lot.

* * *

When Lydia texts him that evening, _'I told Derek to come over. You're welcome,'_ Stiles can't even squawk indignantly at Lydia's sheer balls, or that she figured out there was something going on before Stiles did.

Because no, Stiles is not a very observant person. But he's learning.

* * *

_Reviews would be very much appreciated, because feedback is always good. _

_Thank you for reading!_


End file.
